


A Study In Poetry

by startrekto221B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Love Poems, M/M, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Poetry, Romanticism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 05:19:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4466876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startrekto221B/pseuds/startrekto221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't realize the poetry John writes about his girlfriends is really about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study In Poetry

It sometimes amused John when people tried to impress or frighten Sherlock Holmes with their stories. Though it was perfectly understandable that they, not knowing him, couldn’t possibly tell that his threshold for the bizarre was extraordinarily high. John however was well aware by now that a case required a different league of anomaly for Sherlock to even glance at it. Ordinary ghost stories were normally flippantly dismissed as someone else’s poorly thought out amateur magician antics, not worth his time. Those who bothered providing exposition to their tales of the man-made (in Sherlock’s view) macabre were rejected before John had a chance to note their names. John was sure the same would happen to this Henry Knight fellow. But felt a bit bad, as it seemed that out of the three of them in the room, Henry at least seemed to completely believe the spooky happenings he was describing.

 

“It’s a strange place, the Hollow. Makes you feel so cold inside, so afraid.” Knight remarked.

“Yes, if I wanted poetry, I’d read John’s emails to his girlfriends. Much funnier.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

John looked to him and glared, but mentally pat himself on the back and let out a sigh of relief. It seemed that his plan had worked. But how could a man that smart be so easy to trick? He had known that Sherlock looked through his things. His computer files were no exception. His blog, being public, was free game for Sherlock to look through, so anything written there about Sherlock was open to criticism--which Sherlock provided easily and often. Where then, could he write other things about Sherlock? Things that he rather Sherlock not read. Or ever discover to be about him. The idea, if he said so himself, was so simple it was ingenious.

He was not really a poet. He had never been a poet. He remembered reading poetry at school. Shakespeare’s plays, Longfellow, Poe, and Whitman. The difference between a Petrarchan and Shakespearean sonnet. How to structure a villanelle. He had gotten through it. But it had never spoken to him. None of them really had. Until he had fallen for Sherlock Holmes. Something about the angles of the other man’s face, the throaty baritone of his laugh and the lightning quick relations in his mind had ignited an inner romantic in John he didn’t know existed. For once, in a lifetime of loving soft breasts and caressing long hair, he had felt himself get hard for a man. For once, in a lifetime of what was in retrospect quite surface level affectations, he had a wildfire burning in his soul.

He wrote them sparingly. Sitting in bed late at night with his laptop open, thinking of the man asleep downstairs. Thinking about soft skin, and dashing around London and the warmth that spread from his chest through all the joints of his body at the mere thought of Sherlock. It made him feel a bit lighter the next day, a bit less like he was just bursting to say something that would lead to no good and would potentially drive Sherlock away and ruin everything. It was a good therapy, he rationalized desperately. Writing. In that sense Ella had been right. It had only been natural to title them for his girlfriends. Whichever one he was dating at the time. He took care that the details weren’t glaringly off. If he mentioned Sherlock’s eyes and the girl had brown ones that was an instant indication that he was either blind or lying, so he made sure those details matched perfectly. Otherwise the poems had little to nothing to do with the girl at all.

A part of John was sure he was tempting fate. Sherlock was so clever. How could he not read those and see they were so glaringly, so obviously, about him? The first time he saw Sherlock read them the other man looked as if he was concentrating intently. Which was not what John had expected of someone with so little appreciation for the liberal arts. Do you want him to know it’s you? A part of him chided. Crack the code and then be with you like you want? A voice in the back of his head whispered.

 

But John could only watch as Sherlock suddenly closed the laptop and remarked rather coldly, “It’s a pity the verses haven’t had a discernible effect on your sex life.”

 

“As if you could do better.” John said back, not even wanting to know how Sherlock had known how often he had sex nowadays.

 

Sherlock had not offered a snarky retort to that. Which was surprising. Instead retiring to his room and closing the door. John almost smiled to himself. How could the verses be having any effect? He thought. He hadn’t actually sent them to the girls they were titled for. How could he? They at least might realize who they were actually about. In the matter of romance, it seemed only Sherlock could be this blind. What did he really think about them? John wondered. What would he think if they were addressed properly? He swallowed. That could never happen. It would be the biggest mistake I ever made, John thought, he’d just laugh at me.

 

***

Sherlock didn’t go through John’s folders too often. Not the documents anyway, as pictures from his military days were hardly likely to be found there, and financial documentation and tax return copies were hardly of use for a good wank. No, for that there were the pictures of the unit and of John, tan in the sun in Kandahar, and when John wasn’t home Sherlock nicked his laptop and made good use of them.

Passwords were easy to guess. Though John had taken to little messages once in a while like “goawaysherlock” and “useyourowndamnlaptop” which brought a smile to his face. It was on a whim that day when Sherlock opened his folders, as he had originally nicked the laptop to check some weather patterns over Surrey, and he had been surprised to see one under “Documents” called simply “A Study in Poetry”. There was a document called “Love Poems” and Sherlock was so intrigued that he had opened it, even with John still in the room. Each poem had the name of a girl John had been in a serious relationship with. Fascinating. He read slowly. Drinking in every word. Every word of John’s love for people that weren’t him. And what a deep, passionate love it was. Idiot, why are you torturing yourself? He thought. John will never love you, write things like this about you, so stop it, he told himself. But for some reason. Whatever reason. He read on.

 

**_For Emily_ **

_In your eyes I hear the squawking of gulls_

_Spy the tumultuous waters of the sea_

_The blue that to the world seems so very cold_

_Is seldom cool to the touch for me_

_Your face crinkles when it smiles_

_Your cheeks are alabaster dunes_

_You cast a different sort of light_

_And I could not have met you a moment too soon_

_Long and drawn out were the hours, the days_

_They became nothing after we met_

_They say the Earth lives off of it’s sun’s rays_

_In that case I am forever in your debt_

_Though you are not mine by right_

_And shall perhaps never, ever be_

_I would go anywhere with you in my sight_

_Hoping that one day you’d turn back and see_

_***_

**_For Michelle_ **

****

_There is beauty in your hands, in the sound of your voice_

_Like a star you are distant yet ever the same_

_Did you come to be this way by choice?_

_Or by a force inside you, impossible to tame?_

_I yearn for that knowledge which will never be mine_

_Hoping the pain dulls with the years_

_Between us there is only the finest of lines_

_But in my dreams it is I who quiets your fears_

_Soldier am I and so I have fought_

_To remove from my heart the print of your name_

_But is ultimately useless, put simply: for nought_

_For I cannot win at cruel love’s game_

_Yet dream I do still, of asking for your hand_

_To dance by the firelight, and to feel the heat of your kiss_

_I’d take you to the seashore and write our names in the sand_

_These are the things I forever must miss_

_Would you drown me in your veridian eyes?_

_If I told you I was only yours_

_Would you let me protect you from a world that lies?_

_If I told you my love was real and pure_

_The questions I ask_

_The answers don’t change_

_A silence deafening to all who hear_

_I should not have let go of my mind_

_And told my heart that it may steer_

_***_

**_For Sarah_ **

_Laugh again_

_For I love the sound_

_It thrills me_

_It emboldens me_

_I could stand up to cheer_

_Let me hear your happiness_

_Clear and loud_

_Let me feel your joy_

_For I hold you dear_

_Every time I ask you_

_Whether you’re well_

_And having good fun_

_Don’t stop to answer_

_Because you’re too caught up_

_Instead pull me after you_

_Break into a run_

_Let’s be you and me_

_As awake as we are alive_

_Teach me the world I do not know_

_Teach me the meaning of surprise_

_Let’s feel the thrill of the chase_

_The blood pumping through our veins_

_How it should stay_

_Is how it has been_

_No matter what trials are at us hurled_

_The two of us against the rest of the world_

 

Until suddenly he could read no longer. He closed the laptop, making a cutting remark to John about his sex life before turning back to his room to process. This was worse than the pictures. At least the John in the pictures and the John in his life both had that same smile, a smile that was sometimes directed at him. But the voice in these poems was different. This was John the lover. This was John’s affection. Something never directed towards Sherlock. It was tender. And sweet. And altogether unexpected. But John couldn’t know how it affected him. He could never know that Sherlock cared at all.

When Henry Knight was telling his story then Sherlock saw the perfect opportunity.

He rolled his eyes, making sure John was watching and listening and focused directly at him before saying, “Yes, if I wanted poetry, I’d read John’s emails to his girlfriends. Much funnier.”

John glared. Yes, Sherlock thought, that had the intended effect. Let him feel it, he thought. Let him think it’s beneath me. Let him drown in his precious “veridian eyes”. Take someone else to the seashore and write their name in the sand. Let him be “the two of us” with someone who deserves someone like him. Let him be in love, just not with me.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this post on tumblr by deduce-my-heart.  
> http://deduce-my-heart.tumblr.com/post/113542594231/john-watson-poet
> 
> You can find me at:  
> startrekto221B.tumblr.com  
> :)  
> Might consider a happy ending later if I can think of more poetry.


End file.
